


Cuffed

by lovesickjily



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Muggle, F/M, Flirting, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15582255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesickjily/pseuds/lovesickjily
Summary: Lily wonders, as she stares at the messy-haired man currently handcuffed to her bedpost, if this bizarre situation could be considered kidnapping.





	Cuffed

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a dream that i literally forget the events to

If she were to be asked how the _heck_ she got into this situation, Lily supposed that it all started with an email. One, simple little _mistake_ of an email.

Who even _used_ emails nowadays? Texting was a completely _acceptable_ alternative, and unless one wanted to send a lengthy message, or, in some cases a virus to those that they hated, emails were extremely unnecessary. Of course, Lily was completely _biased,_ because she’d had literally no problem with sending them until today, when she’d gotten an email from _James Potter._

Tall, dark, and handsome, with hair so wild that it just _exudes_ sex vibes, and _god,_ not to mention those lovely honey-colored eyes of his framed behind dark glasses that brought more attention towards his pretty face, it was no surprise that Lily didn’t at all have a problem with the man, not when he looked like _that._ She’d open up anything from him, an email being just _one_ of such, and it seemed friendly enough, saying:

_Hello, Lily!_

_I’m James Potter, if you don’t know me, and I’m attaching a rough draft from what I’ve got so far concerning this month’s issue. Sorry that it’s not our usual friend Frank that’s doing it, but I hope I can meet your expectations as his fellow graphic designer. Have a good day!_

_Best regards, James._

_P.S. Please be as critical as you can. I strive for perfection, which I think I can only achieve if you point out everything that you hate about it._

He was quite endearing, really, being one to skip the professionalism and getting straight to the point. She’d never met the man before, but she had quite a good idea of his personality through the email, and she quite liked those people whose personalities shone through their writing.

She decided to leave the attachment to look at later, having far more enough on her plate and trying to balance her _other_ tasks, and, because she quite liked to take a break, she opened out her _other_ email from Mary, switching to her personal email quickly. Though on opposite ends of the city for work— but across the hall when it came to flats—, they still found time in their lives to send each other strange things that only _they_ would find funny as far as best friends went.

Today, apparently, was ugly picture day.

Mary had at first attached a photo of herself from their high school days, captioning it with ‘ _at least I got prettier. goddamn,’_ to which Lily responded with her _own_ high school photo, and Mary responded by telling her to _‘sit the fuck down. you’ve always been pretty.’_ Lily didn’t entertain to her thought, knowing that her best friend would only accuse her of being a narcissist, even if for good reason.

The email chains were _quite_ hilarious, and sometimes, she’d find herself scrolling all the way to the beginning of it all to read again on slow days. She looked around the room, and upon seeing that Dumbledore was strolling merrily along with her computer in his line of vision, she quickly clicked back to her personal email, pulling up James’s email to show that she was ‘working.’

When he’d walked away, seeming to have taken his good old time like the view of the boring gray office was enough to admire, she pulled open the camera on the computer, and, because it was an unspoken rule for _all_ computer webcams, the quality was quite terrible, but that was fine, she supposed, as it would only enhance the unflattering aspect that she hoped this photo of her would achieve. She contorted her face together, quite unattractively, she’d say, and pulled her chin towards her neck to achieve that desired double-chin look, snapping four pictures of her in different poses before nodding in content. It was _Mary_ that was going to receive the photos, and what kind of best friend would she be if she didn’t receive terrible pictures of her on the daily? They’d created a photo album solely for each other’s faces, Mary having named Lily’s ‘Wank Bank,’ which she supposed fully explained their friendship.

She was quick to send the email, and the computer made a small chime to indicate that it had been sent, before returning back to work, for _real_ this time. She’d only begun typing away at the computer when she heard a sound from her emails, and usually, she’d ignore it, but there was this sinking feeling of some sort that had growing within her since she’d sent those faces of hers, that she’d—

_Oh my god._

No.

No, no, _no._

She’d sent the email to the _wrong_ person.

There, instead of Mary’s usually peppered responses, was a _new_ email from James Potter, who she would have coined as a bloke who was not afraid to double email in times of clarification, had it not been for the fact that the email was part of a _thread,_ meaning that she’d sent something _back_ to him.

Her mortification at the mere fact that she sent it to _him_ of all people grew at least a million times.

She was reminded of one of those scenes in the movies, the ones where the idiotic main character, who had a passion for seeking out the supernatural rather than _running away,_ found herself walking towards a room with a stick in her hand as she knew _full_ well that she was about to be sliced apart by an unknown force. Yes, that was her, only the impending doom that she felt bubbling inside of herself was due to the fact that she already _knew_ what she’d done, that she was fully aware of the fact that she was about to be face a gruesome murder by the hands of embarrassment.

And there it was, like a colorful banner spread across the drab walls of the room, was an email from James saying:

_Thank you for the acknowledgement? I don’t know what the appropriate response is, because saying anything else would mark me as unprofessional. Nice pictures, by the way. I’m fairly certain that’s the most I could say._

_Best regards, James._

She didn’t know whether to slam her head against the keyboard or against the screen, but she supposed that the screen was the better option, seeing as she might accidentally send another wrong email again. Computer shortcuts were both a blessing and a curse, after all. She sighed, composing another email to explain herself, but no, that wouldn’t do at all. She needed to properly apologize, and a simple little email would _not_ do it.

_Dear James,_

_I’m_ so _sorry regarding the last email I sent you. I swear it wasn’t at all intended towards you, and as much as I’d like to write about a million paragraphs to properly convey my remorse, I’m sure we’ve loads to do in our 9-5 jobs. Please, let me make it up to you. I’ll prepare a special dinner for both of us, and we can discuss the original email concerning the graphics, among other things, of course. Does Friday at 7 work for you?_

_Sincerely, Lily._

He responded nearly immediately, and she wondered if he was slacking off like she was or he was just quick to reply to _everything._

_Dear Lily,_

_That will do very well._

_Best regards, James._

_P.S. I sincerely wish I could be more informal in my emails._

* * *

 The knock at the door came _just_ when she’d deemed the meal finished in the oven.

She agreed that she might have done it a _bit_ too much, having changed out of her blouse into a low-cut top that made her tits look _really_ nice, and she’d applied three layers of mascara and a nice, cherry-red lipstick, because even if it _wasn’t_ a date, James Potter was still gorgeous. She’d like to at least look presentable after he’d seen terrible photos of her face.

She answered the door and was greeted by him, his eyes raking over her body, which was _just_ the effect she wished for, because _maybe_ that was enough to make up for the fact that he’d seen her at an angle she wished no one but Mary could ever see her in. She was fairly certain that she looked the same, unsubtly admiring his body, his strong arms being displayed with the black tee that he was wearing, and his hazel eyes looked _so_ much prettier with him being a mere foot away from her.

“Hey,” he breathed, and she gave him a small smile.

“Hi. Come inside,” she gestured, and he responded with an easy smile, his eyes taking in the view of her apartment. “The food’s still in the oven. You should seat yourself, and I’ll prepare everything.”

“Is this a restaurant, Lily? Only I think it’s only fair if I help you.”

His voice was quite lovely, and she internally beat herself up for wondering how it’d sound with him atop of her, but she quickly shook the thought out of her head, smiling sweetly up at him. “No, I insist. You’re my guest, aren’t you?”

“As a guest, I consider it quite rude of me to let you do all the work.”

“As the host, I consider it quite rude of me to _make_ you do some work.”

“If I’m eating here, I think I should at least assist you.”

“Yes. You can help me by sitting your pretty bum down and wait. Besides, I’ve already set the table, so unless you’d like both of us to carry out the Shepherd’s Pie together, please make yourself acquainted with a dinner seat.”

He stared at her incredulously, and she wondered if he was contemplating whether or not he should actually carry it out with her, but then he smirked in defeat, making a great deal of emphasis of sitting down. “You’re more clever than I thought.”

“Did you have low expectations, then?” she responded, grabbing a pair of oven mitts, but she didn’t pull open the oven just yet, turning to gauge his reaction.

“Nah. My expectations of you were already up here.” He made a gesture of raising his hand above his head to demonstrate where she would be on his invisible scale. “But now, they’re right about here.” He reached up as high as he possibly could while sitting to the point that the bottom of his shirt lifted, revealing the abs that had unfortunately been obscured behind the tee, and if she followed that trail of hairs, _god._

Not now, Lily. There was a time and place for everything, but now was most definitely _not_ the time for dirty, perverse thoughts.

She focused her eyes on the oven instead, carefully taking out the Shepherds Pie and placing it down on the table gently. He made a sound of content, saying, “Smells delish.”

“I’d rather hope it did,” she replied easily, and she picked up her utensils, baring them in her hands as they did in the movies to demonstrate just how _excited_ she was to eat. The Shepherds Pie, of course, not the man sitting across from her, though he looked _just_ as delicious, maybe even more.

They dove right in, Lily allowing James to cut the first piece for himself, and they talked about the graphics for the magazine that they worked for, the information not being all that important for right now, though she _did_ tuck away everything they exchanged with one another for later. It was really easy to talk to him, and she quite _liked_ talking to him, because it wasn’t just the sound of his voice, but the way he could make conversation out of anything.

The little Tardis-themed salt and pepper shakers that she had lying atop of the table? He was quick to make a remark about that, and it was well worth the 20 quid that she paid for them if just for _him_ to compliment them. It spurred into a well-heated debate. Could you believe? An argument concerning _salt and pepper shakers?_

Time seemed to fly by fast when she was talking to him too, and she wondered where had _he_ been all this time she had been bored out of her mind in her office, knowing that if she knew just have amazing of a time she’d have with him, she’d bloody talk to him all day. The office hours would definitely pass by much more quickly. She voiced that thought to him, and he looked _so_ bloody pleased with himself that she’d say it again if it meant that he would give her that same quirky smile of his.

And with time, she was quite concerned with how quick it had taken for her to develop _feelings_ for him, and it was quite discombobulating how fast her heart speed up when he _did_ smile, which appeared after just about every one of her little comments and retorts. And _god,_ when his eyes raked over her, even if it might have been _just_ because of how daring she had been with her fashion choices, it made the butterflies in her stomach fly at full force, like they were speeding up her heart rate solely by flapping.

The next thing she knew, the tray was empty, a signal that he was going to leave soon, and the fact of the matter was that she didn’t _want_ him to go yet. She wanted him to stay, and she didn’t mean for the _entire night,_ though she wasn’t at all partial to _that_ idea, but long enough for her to get to know him _more._

They’d sipped a bit of wine as they ate, and though she was far from drunk, she had just about _enough_ of that liquid courage, standing up just as _he_ stood up, presumably to leave for the night. “It was really nice to formally meet you, Lil—”

“Do you want to have a look around?”

His eyebrows drew up in surprise, and she honestly didn’t even blame him, as she literally just strung that question out at him, but then he gave her a small smile, nodding. “Sure. I’d _love_ to have a look around Casa de la Evans.”

Her own lips drew upwards. “Well, don’t let me stop you. I’ll be behind you, in case you accidentally— or purposely— break something.”

“Is that so?” he asked teasingly, “Or do you want me to be your tour guide?”

“I lied. It’s _your_ explanation that’s correct. I actually don’t know my way around the flat at all.”

“After this tour, you’ll know every inch of it by heart,” he replied, and he made a wide sweeping motion with his arms, “This is the dining room.”

“Evidently,” she smiled.

He whirled around to the living room and pointed, simply stating ‘living room.’ He was being the absolute _cutest,_ but she wanted him in her _bedroom,_ having concocted _quite_ the plan, and she followed him down the small hallway, opening the first door. Upon the sight of the toilet and shower, he turned to her, a small cock of his eyebrow, saying, “This is the bathroom, where you get rid of your waste and then clean evidence of said waste.”

“That’s the strangest way to put it.”

“It was either that, or something concerning shit.”

She quirked her lips up at him, wondering how he could make talk about the _bathroom_ sound endearing, and they walked out, closing the door behind them as they made their way to the adjacent bedroom. “Here is thy fair maiden’s bedroom, where she slumbers and retreats for the night.”

“Have a look around,” she replied, dropping their faux tourist act, and she watched as he eyes skimmed over the room, stopping prompt at—

Oh god. She’d left her _bra_ out in the open, lying _right_ near her bedpost, and there was nothing wrong about a bloke seeing her bra, seeing as she’d been the one who’d invited him in the first place, not to mention the fact that she had _tits,_ meaning that it was a dead giveaway that she’d wear said products _._ Of _course_ she’d have bras, but still, it was a bit embarrassing for it to be out in the open like that, because if she wanted him to see her bra, it’d be on her very chest, ready for him to remove.

“I’m sorry about that,” she told him, plucking it from the ground and stuffing it into her drawer.

“Don’t be. Was just surprised is all.”

He was looking at the pictures she’d framed on her bedside table now, and it contained a drawer, filled with miscellaneous things, like some candles, a few documents, and a pair of—

Could she?

Yes, she could, there was no doubt about it.

 _Should_ she?

Well.

No, but one only had just the one life to live.

She did the next action out of a whim.

She opened up the drawer, pulling out the pair of handcuffs that she’d bought out of pure boredom one day and looped them around his hand, not even trying with both of them because that would have been a hassle, and he’d undoubtedly catch on quickly and resist. She secured it around him and put the other cuff around her bedpost, glad that it locked in place once she’d shut it.

His reaction was _priceless._ His eyes were widened, only just taking in the event when she’d finished her work, and his eyes shifted from his hand and then towards her, looking to be in sheer disbelief. “Lily, what the _fuck_ are you doing?”

That was a good question.

What _was_ she doing?

She was more rational than this, she thought, and she scoured her brain for an excuse, as telling him that she wanted him to stay made her sound _creepy._ He waited for an answer, not at all looking mad, when she remembered what had _caused_ this apology dinner in the first place. “We need to talk.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “We’ve been talking for the past hour.”

“Yes, but I mean…” she trailed off, biting her lip softly as she desperately hoped that he caught what she was referring to, even though she didn’t at all want to bring it up.

His eyes widened at her, and he reached out with his other hand, placing it on her shoulder. “Listen, Lily. You don’t have to worry about it. I’m not going to report you to HR, if that’s what you’re scared of.”

“I— thank you,” she replied, her cheeks flushing red, and she felt the color on her throat, “I don’t know why I did that, to be honest. I suppose it’s my idea of a joke.”

“The handcuffs or the email?”

“The handcuffs,” she answered, “The emails was directed to a friend, so that was completely intentionally. I— I’ll unlock you right now.”

She avoided his eye, the embarrassment of the situation fully creeping up on her now, and she dug around in her drawer in an attempt to look for it, but it was nowhere to be found. She checked under the candles, atop the documents, even going as far as reaching all the way back and pressing her fingers against the very edge of the drawer, hoping that it was there. No luck.

Oh, great. She’d done it now.

She had completely, _unintentionally_ handcuffed someone to her bed, wondering if she’d broken any laws because of her own foolishness, because of something that was meant to be _funny._ “Lily?”

“I’m so _sorry,”_ she nearly whispered, not sure whether to laugh or cry at this predicament that they were in, “I can’t seem to find the key anywhere.”

His lips curled up, evidently amused by her despite the fact that he was literally _locked_ up in her room at _his_ own mercy. “Lily, it’s honestly fine.”

“It’s _not,”_ she insisted, “I— Here, I’ll make it up to you. What’s your favourite song? I’ll play it for you, and I— I’ll massage you! I’m sure working in an office all day has put some sort of strain on your back. Please, sit down.”

He made a half-arsed attempt at sitting on the bed, looking quite awkward with one hand held up in the air, and she started thinking of _other_ circumstances where he’d look that way, circumstances that would ultimately end up with _both_ his arms handcuffed with her atop of him— sans any clothing of course. She burst that bubble, because again, now was _not_ the time.

“Lily, you don’t have to do anything. I—”

“No, you’re going to shut your pretty mouth up and let me give you a massage.”

He quirked an eyebrow up at her but raised his other hand up in defeat, to which he promptly made a motion of zipping his mouth shut. She climbed up on the bed behind him, and as she tentatively placed her hands on his shoulders, she was reminded of how _akin_ this was to the intro of an adult film, with mediocre acting at best and the scene escalating quickly.

The only difference being, however, was that there would be _no_ shagging, as far as Lily was concerned.

She kneaded his shoulder, just once, when he turned his head back to look at her, winding his free arm around her neck and pulling her beside him. She stared at him in shock, her heart beating at the speed of a race horse, but she didn’t budge, knowing that his grip on her would keep her in place. “You didn’t really think that I’d let you give me a massage, did you?”

“Well, you’ve no other choice, considering the fact that you’ve nowhere else to go. At least let me massage your wrist when you break free.”

“Break free? Am I your prisoner now?” he joked.

“Please don’t say that, because it makes me feel like I kidnapped you.”

“And you haven’t?”

“No, actually, believe it or not, my plan to seduce you did _not_ involve a case of Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Seduce me, did you say?”

“Yes,” she affirmed, because there was no point in beating around the bushes. He had _eyes,_ and he _had_ to know that she dolled herself up to impress him, if she could judge by the way his eyes had lingered on her person the entire time they’d had dinner together.

“Can I be honest with you, then?”

“Are you implying that you’ve been lying to me this entire time?” she teased, and he smiled at her.

“Sort of, yeah,” he replied, and he turned his gaze away from her, though his hand, which had been looped around her back, wound its way towards her own hand, intertwining them together. “This _might_ be a little embarrassing, but the reason why I reached out to you instead of Frank like he usually did was because I asked him for the switch. I, er, I sort of, really _wanted_ to get to know you better? I really do like you, Lily.”

His confession was like music to her ears, a symphony that she wanted to hear for practically the rest of her life, but he wasn’t going to get her _that_ easily. She was going to take advantage of this situation, because maybe, _maybe_ she’d attempted to assert her dominance like the powerful woman that she hoped that she was, and she was _not_ going to let him make her feel like putty when _he_ was the one who was handcuffed to her bed.

Maybe, she begrudgingly admitted, she was a _bit_ drunk from the wine, but she was still very much in control of her thoughts, or at least for the _most_ part she was.

She shot up from the bed, pulling James’s arm off of her, and she stood in front of him, leaning down so that they were face-to-face, or face-to-chest. “And what are you going to do about it, James Potter?”

“I dunno, really,” he breathed, and she noticed that his eyes were trained on her lips rather than her chest, most likely because he wanted to be a _bit_ more of a gentleman, “The current course of action is to accidentally email you some pictures of myself.”

Her cheeks flared up. “They were meant for my best friend.”

He cocked his head to the side like the smarmy idiot that he was. He was supposed to be _defenceless_ in this situation, not getting the upper hand from it. “Really? That’s quite tragic. Could you make that face in the email for me right now, then? It’s quite cute.”

“It was _not.”_

“It was the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.” He pulled out his phone from his pocket, unlocking it and flipping to his camera roll, revealing that he’d gone as far as _saving_ the pictures. “See? Bloody adorable, you are.”

She didn’t at all think she looked adorable in those photos, the camera catching her worst angles, and they brought shame to her _nice_ pictures, the ones she’d taken in pretty lighting with a _proper_ smile, not an overly-exaggerated _pout._ Out of _all_ the emails that she could have sent to him, why _that_ one? She’d sent Mary loads of nice photos of her, so why couldn’t James be the recipient of _those_ photos instead of what she’d actually sent to him? “Why aren’t you mad?”

“Why would I be mad? Because you handcuffed me to a bed because you accidentally emailed me something?”

It sounded even worse coming out of his mouth, and she visibly flinched. “That’s _precisely_ why.”

“I figure if it meant that I get to talk to you more, there’s virtually nothing wrong with it.”

James Potter. Charming. Gorgeous. _Smooth._

She was undeserving.

“I’m going to look for the key again,” she said instead, and she turned around, pulling up her other drawers in case the key had somehow wounded its way in another part of her room, but she _just_ didn’t quite get it. She’d never even _touched_ the key, never even _used_ the handcuffs, so just _how_ did the key go missing? Perhaps she’d dropped it one time when she took out a candle, not knowing that it was attached to it. Yes, that had to be it.

“Need a little help over there?”

“Yes, actually, but seeing as the only person who could assist me is unable to move from his fixed spot near my bed, I’m afraid this is a one-woman expedition.”

“I’ll support your expedition. I’ll be a one-man cheerleader.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “Is that an excuse to throw compliments at me?”

“How else am I supposed to stress how gorgeous you are?”

“Then what am I supposed to do about _you?_ I can’t very well cheer you on for sitting there and being pretty.”

“I disagree. There’s something called multitasking, you see.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that’s rather unfortunate. Give me some time to look for the key, and I’ll cheer you on in other ways.”

She heard him take in a shuddering breath, and she felt her lips curving upwards. She beat him at his own little game, despite having absolutely _no_ idea what she meant by ‘other ways.’

She expected that she’d turned her entire bedroom upside down looking for the bloody key, and James, having stayed true to his word, cheered her on the entire 21 minutes that she’d spent searching, his words including, but not being limited to, a compliment of some sort, each one getting more and creative than the last, or was it less creative? She didn’t know. She surely wasn’t going to be picky about the compliments if he was so willing to _give_ them to her in the first place.

But 21 minutes were put to waste, and the only difference between that time span and now was that her room was significantly _messier_ than before. Even worse, she still hadn’t found the bloody key.

Would she have handcuffed the gorgeous bespectacled man to her bed had she known that she’d be unable to find that key?

Probably, probably not.

Who knew?

The fact of the matter was that she _didn’t_ have the key, and there was no use in dwelling the possible outcomes that she could _possibly_ be experiencing had she not locked him up. He’d probably be at home right now, and she’d definitely be lying on her bed contemplating how much she _should_ have handcuffed him.

She _just_ couldn’t win.

He was standing up again, probably due to the strain that the cuffs might have made to his wrists when he was sitting down, and he was nearly beginning to throw another compliment at her, she could tell. His compliments weren’t even simple ones that anyone could throw at her if they saw her walking down the street. No, James Potter seemed to be studying her— _had_ to be— because no one could give her one glance and say something like— Oh.

 _Speaking_ of a compliment. “You know that feeling when you study your arse off for a test and you end up failing it anyway?”

“Yes?” She really hoped that he wasn’t going to tell her that looking at her gave him that same feeling, because what a blow _that_ would have been, especially after this night that they had.

“Well, I reckon the sight of you is enough to forget that I fucking failed because then I’ll feel like I’m winning.” Ah. _There_ he goes.

“But then—”

“Nope,” he cut her off, “I fucking _won.”_

“Have you?” she asked, moving towards him, his words giving her further courage as her fingers skimmed across his chest, “Have you _really?”_

“Yeah,” he let out, and she noticed the way he’d swallowed when he looked at her, his eyes growing slightly darker at the sight of her. Her fingers traced the outline of his jaw, admiring the curve of it, and she was completely aware of how frantic her heart was at the small distance between them, but she wouldn’t let that deter her. She drew her lips up close to him, and he watched carefully, and she allowed a small kiss to the corner of his lip, just barely tasting it, before easing her way towards his ear as she slightly slid her lips over his skin.

She stopped at his ear, whispering, “No, I don’t think you have.”

And with that, she pulled away, grinning victoriously when her actions had the desired effect on him.

Lily Jane Evans. Smart. Pretty. _Confident._

 _“Fuck,_ Lily.”

“Maybe later,” she replied coyishly, adding, “I’m not going to do anything to you when you’re helpless.”

“I’m not bloody helpless,” he insisted, and he waved his free hand in the air, “If I wanted to, I’d have pushed you off of me.”

“The Stockholm Syndrome has gotten to you, apparently,” she joked, and he rolled his eyes at her halfheartedly.

“What will it take? More compliments? I don’t think I’ve ever had to pay someone with compliments.”

“Credit card transactions work just as fine,” she replied easily, “Only I’d feel awful if you actually paid me money.”

He smiled. “You know, if it wasn’t unprofessional, I would have gone on for hours about how bloody gorgeous you are after you sent me photos of your face. It took about fifty tries, I’d wager, before I finally came up with an email that _didn’t_ imply that I thought you were pretty.”

She blinked, staring at him. “You’re kidding.”

“Nah.”

“Why would you—”

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

She scoured his eyes, his pretty, golden eyes that seemed to glitter as he stared back, for any signs that he might have been deceiving her in any sort of way, but all she saw was solemnity and, if she was correct, some adoration, like _she_ hung the stars. And if she _did_ hang the stars if his eyes bore the truth, then they were dangling in his eyes, shining brightly.

His hand flew up to cup her face gently, and he parted her lips open before leaning in as much as he possibly could, stopping a few centimeters short from her face. “Could I kiss you?”

A man who acted from _consent._ Lovely. “And ruin my lipstick?”

“Funny, I thought you wore it for me.”

“Funny, because then you’d be correct,” she replied, and the next thing she knew, her lips were on his, savouring the sensation as the feeling in her heart skyrocketed, and who knew James Potter could be so _good_ at kissing with only one hand? His hand flew from her chin and down towards her waist, playing with the bottom of her shirt but not advancing any further.

She hoped that when she pulled away, there would be red staining his lips, because that meant that they’d done a great job of smearing it off. On the flip side, she didn’t _want_ to know, because _that_ meant that they’d stopped kissing, and _oh god could she please stay like this forever?_

It was almost as if her lips were _made_ to fit against his, like their molds completely complemented one another in the sense that if one were to be made, the _other_ had to be as well. He tugged slightly at her bottom lip before pressing one last light kiss on her, pulling away sweetly as he reached his forehead against hers.

“That was— _wow,”_ she said, and she couldn’t at all help the smile that grew on her lips as he mirrored her actions, a light chuckle falling from his lips.

“Wow?”

“More than wow, actually.”

“I’d hope so,” he responded, “There’s hardly any lipstick left on your lips.”

She gently poked his mouth, a nice cherry colour now from their ministrations. “And there’s loads on yours.”

“Does it make me look pretty?”

“Very,” she nodded, and his smile grew more.

He brought her arms around his neck, saying in a quieter undertone, “I have something to tell you. Don’t be mad?”

 _“I’m_ the one who handcuffed you to the bed. I don’t think I’ll get mad.”

“All right,” he said, “Come here.”

“I’m _right_ here.”

 _“Closer,”_ he elaborated, and he used his hand to bring her towards him so that she was flush against his chest, “Promise you won’t be mad?”

“I promise.”

“Pinky swear on it.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him but intertwined their pinkies together, smiling. “Will you tell me now? I’m getting quite antsy over what you’ve got to say.”

He paused, quite possibly for dramatic effect more than anything else, and—

“I’ve had the key in my pocket this entire time.”

She pulled away from him quickly, his eyes widened. “You _what?”_

“Oi,” he said, bringing her back towards him, “You promised you wouldn’t be mad.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, “Only that I didn’t expect— oh my god. You— _When?”_

“It doesn’t take that long for a bloke to notice that he’s about to get handcuffed to a bed, so I swiped the key from the drawer when you weren’t looking.”

“Oh my _god,”_ she repeated, her voice filled with exasperation and amusement, “All this time I thought I _lost_ the key. _”_

“Nah, it’s been right here all along,” he replied, patting the pocket in his trousers.

“Why’d you do it?” she asked him.

“Isn’t it obvious? I reckon it would have been the funnier approach by playing along with you. Was quite cute of you, I’d say.”

 _“That’s_ why you weren’t mad.”

“Wouldn’t have been mad if I didn’t steal it. Do you want to do the honours of releasing me?”

“Will you report me to the authorities for kidnapping?”

“Nah. I’ll report you for stealing instead.”

“Stealing?”

“My heart,” he quipped, and her lips curved upwards, watching as he took the key out of his pocket as he’d said and placing it into the lock on the handcuff, turning it and watching in satisfaction as it opened with a click. He threw it to the side, cupping her face gingerly with _both_ his hands this time. “But, I’ll let it slide just this once.”

“Just this time?”

“And every time after.”

With that, he pressed his lips against hers, and she responded eagerly.

An email and a handcuff were quite possibly the strangest combination in getting two people together, but if she were to contemplate it later, she’d agree that it was all _very_ well worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr @lovesickjily !! :))


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